Balancing Knives
by Shostakovich
Summary: The shah invites a group of entertainers to Persia. They upend the ladder inside the high walls of Mazanderan Court with a mixture of lust, lies, and murder. Various points of view.
1. Welcome to Persia

_Salaam_: Hello (Arabic)

Kizzy had always been fascinated by knives.

She wasn't sure if it was the dull shine on a wooden handle, or the easy way they fit into her hands, hands that had been big since she was a child. Was it the thud as they hit the center of a wooden target, or the clean cut they made in a gentleman's cravat?

Kizzy did not know, but she did know she loved them, and nothing would ever change that.

Granted, Kizzy had grown into her big hands, and she didn't need to practice on targets anymore. Aside from which, cravats were much more easily untied, and at any rate, gentlemen with cravats rarely were to be seen near Kizzy. Attaching yourself to a group of traveling magicians had that effect, especially when the traveling took place in the Middle East.

Specifically, in Persia.

And that was where everything changed.

---

_Moses Bazzi_

I first met Kizzy Ferko in 1859, in Alexandria. We were still performing in the streets from time to time, and I am convinced it was a rare intervention of fate that we had been in that particular spot on one of Alexandria's busier streets. Kizzy had been traveling with a cousin and uncle who had let her wander free for the day; I can only assume they understood how her flights of fancy turn into her self-proclaimed truths, for we never had any trouble evading any search parties.

I initially saw Kizzy while she had her head bent over a bouquet of flowers at a the vendor's station that secretly held all of my entourage's equipment. We had gotten the vendor, named Jafar, out of a rather tight spot with some patrolmen, and he'd been loyal to us ever since. Even though the people in my entourage changed, he stayed on and carted our things about with an aura of independent pride. I liked Jafar; he was exactly who he claimed to be. No strings attached.

When Kizzy first joined, there had been eight of us. Myself, of course; Jorge-Carmen-Hugo, three young Spanish acrobats; a dwarf who sang like a man of six feet; and three other tagalongs who did nothing more than act as awed spectators to increase the change people dropped us, and occasionally they would play an oud or ney to add to our mystique.

I must admit, I am a premium magician. I know how people see; I have seen from the outside for much of my life, short though it has been. Jafar admits he thought an angel had swept down to save him when I frightened away the patrolmen who had been harassing him when we first met. In truth, it was fire, not a heavenly being, who sent the bullying men scurrying away. I have only faltered in my performing three times in my whole career.

The first time was my first witness of a murder.

The second was when Kizzy Ferko raised her eyes to mine as I was wrapped in a sheath of flame, and even as the flames licked at my toes, we smiled.

---

Even though I had trouble walking for two weeks due to burns, that smile was definately worth it. The triplets, Jorge-Carmen-Hugo, had a field day at my expense, but they immediately took to Kizzy Ferko, who was the same age as they were. Jafar had found the whole affair startling; he'd never seen me falter, and I was quite sure he was questioning my mortality.

I was enchanted by Kizzy Ferko even before I learned of her extraordinary talent. For Kizzy Ferko threw knives. Not like a young child throws a ball, mind you, but in the way that practiced soldiers will let fly an arrow from a bow, or in the way an assassin blows a poisoned dart into their target's flesh. And Kizzy was the most talented girl I'd ever met. Even Carmen's amazing agility had nothing on Kizzy's throws, which seemed effortless to me. She could part a man's hair down the middle without scratching his skull from fifty paces away with a flick of the wrist, and her knives kissed her targets, but never scratched.

It was quite obvious to me that Kizzy was exactly the kind of girl I'd fall in love with. I decided it was pointless to deny it, so I fell in love with her straightaway. I knew she liked me very much, and it took less than a month for her to admit she loved me.

Around that time, the dwarf in my group who sang was requested to become a permanent member of a wealthy house in Alexandria. He readily agreed; I knew he ached to be admired for his voice, not gawked at for his short stature, so we let him go on easy terms. Also, an Englishman by the name of Jack White approached us one day, having seen us the previous week each day, and asked if he might join us so he might receive some inspiration for a novel he had intended to start. I would have said no immediately, but Jack White turned out to be a clever ventriloquist— that is, he could sound as though he were speaking from where he most certainly was not.

To bribe us into agreeing to let him join us, Jack White had also brought a girl with him who was most curious in appearance and voice. She had little talent for anything, we discovered later, but she had white hair, white skin, and her eyes were a pale, icy blue that seemed closer to white than an actual color. Her voice as well was strange: it seemed to me to be like a ney, the reed end-blown flute one of our tagalongs liked to play.

I had little choice but to let him join us, for he was a very good ventriloquist, and what was more astonishing than an outre girl who made a wonderful ventriloquist's dummy?

Kizzy, who declared the white girl to be German after talking to her in Arabic, dubbed her Schneewittchen, Snow White, after the fairy tale princess. I had no idea how she knew the newly christened Schneewittchen was German, nor how she knew anything about German fairy tales.

Three years passed in which our group became much more sought after and infamous in the courts of various high-ranking peoples in various countries. We moved from Egypt to Plestine and Arabia. In January of 1862, we found ouselves in the Eastern stretches of the Ottoman Empire, in the town of As Samawah, where Uruk, the largest city in Sumer, once stood.

We had just finished entertaining in the city's square to the delight of the citizens when our tagalongs, the rather untalented players of the ney and oud, disappeared. The very same hour, a man came to us in the street, bowing politely and introducing himself as Persian. He told the seven of us (myself, Kizzy Ferko, Jorge-Carmen-Hugo, Jack White, and Schneewittchen) were invited to Mazanderan court to perform for the shah-in-shah and sultana.

We accepted the invitation, of course, and the man, Afshin, seemed much relieved. I suspect he would have been killed had we not agreed to come. We left that very day, Jafar in tow. He had followed us faithfully across many lands, and although Afshin pursed his lips about it, I refused to leave him in As Samawah, where his bits of foolishness would certainly bring him much trouble.

Everywhere we stopped, however, we were invited to perform, so it took many months to reach our destination.

We arrived in Persia's capital on 22 Muharram A.H. 1279 (19 July 1862 by Kizzy Ferko's European dates) and Afshin bid us stay at a fine inn which his father owned while he fetched the man he whispered 'knew all'.

Jack White, who apparently had been to Persia before, told me confidently that Afshin of course meant the Daroga. I merely shrugged, but Kizzy was quite certain Jack White knew what he was talking about, seeing as he had understood Afshin's Persian. She seemed to have a very dim opinion of Europeans, despite being one herself.

We were welcomed very hospitably by Afshin's father, who bowed very low to us and offered us cool water to refresh ourselves. We accepted; Jack White, however, pursed his lips and muttered something about wine. Kizzy gave him a rude look and told him it was forbidden for Muslims to consume the stuff, and Afshin's father seemed quite relieved. Jack White merely gave a stiff apology and sent Kizzy a death glance.

We drank the water offered to us and moved outside to allow Jorge-Carmen-Hugo some freedom of movement. They hated to be confined, and the inn was cramped, even for me.

We did not wander very far from the inn's entrance, seeing as that was where Afshin had told us to be, and Kizzy sat down to sharpen her favorite knife. Jafar stayed in the inn, having begged me to be able to stay there instead of going to see the greater presences of the shah and sultana. Jack White had covered Schneewittchen's unearthly complexion with a long robe and a heavy veil, and I could just see her eyes darting about curiously.

An hour passed and the sun was beginning to set before we once again saw Afshin, this time leading another man who commanded great respect from all those whose eyes he met. Kizzy stood when I pointed him out to her, and her knife and sharpening kit went back into the folds of her clothes as Afshin bowed to the man who I assumed to be the man who knew all, the Daroga, and disappeared into the dispesing crowds of the streets.

The Daroga appraoched us, and I readied myself to be intimidating, which to me meant no blinking that the Daroga could see, and no smiles. I was quite sure the Daroga was not sent to us to befriend us, even if that happened. He needed my respect before I could like him. Kizzy took my hand, realizing my plans to indimidate the older man. He stopped a few paces from us, and I stared at him.

As usual, Jack White spoke first.

"Greetings," Jack White's voice said from behind the man. Jack smirked in his English way when the Daroga quickly turned his head to peer about, suspicious. "I am here," Jack said again, this time his voice pitching from the man's right.

Having witnessed enough humiliation on the guard's part, Jorge-Carmen-Hugo moved forward as one, their sinuous bodies flowing as they moved over and around each other and the still smirking Jack White until Carmen stood between her brothers before the man. The three dipped their heads, and Carmen uttered, "Salaam," in her hoarse, deep voice, the sentiment followed by Jorge and Hugo. They moved back, and Kizzy and I looked at the man expectantly.

He bowed to us, and spoke in Persian. "Salaam. I am Nadir Khan, of Mazanderan Court."

"The Daroga," Jack White informed the others, this time his voice coming from his person, which seemed to relieve Nadir Khan to no end, despite Jack's strange knowledge.

I still did not blink, but I decided an introduction was in order. "I am Moses Bazzi. This is Kizzy Ferko, that is Jack White--" Jack gave a toothy smile-- "and this is Jorge-Carmen-Hugo." I pointed in the triplets' general direction, setting up an amusement for myself when he did not know who was who.

"I welcome you to Persia—"

"A trifle late for that, Daroga," I said, still not blinking. "We have been in Persia for more than five days. Perhaps you would care to welcome us to Mazanderan Court, once you have taken us there?"

Nadir Khan smiled lightly. "Of course."

---

_The Daroga_

There were seven of them. I had not been informed of their numbers, only of where to meet them. I had certainly not expected such young people, nor such a varied group. One was certainly from an Arabic nation, but I was not sure at the time of the origin of a set of three of them, two boys and a girl who appeared to be siblings.

The shah-in-shah's mother, the sultana, had bade me fetch the band of magicians, if that was what they all were. I truly was dumbfounded by them at first sight: they were like nothing I had seen before. There was a definite unity among them, but there also lingered a deviousness that was most evident in the three siblings who I took to be acrobats. Their lithe bodies were sinuous and seemed to be simply cords of muscle. Their three faces were all simply constructed; the features were average and the eyes were all small and dark.

They seemed harmless enough as they darted about their four companions, garbed in thin flowing material. But I am quite sure they had been well equipped to protect themselves. If not by their own capable bodies, then by hidden weapons on their person.

When I first saw the group, I was foolishly relieved to see the darkest of the seven, the one I was sure was an Arab. He was also very slim, and he wore nothing to cover his torso. He wore loose pants and was lightly clasping the hand of an unthreatening light-skinned girl who seemed younger but was nearly as tall. Two others stood slightly behind, a blatantly British man with yellow hair and light eyes who seemed to guard a figure that I guessed to be a woman. I could see nothing of her person, only the dark clothes surrounding her, and it was unnerving, to say the least.

It was the Englishman who spoke first, his accent cutting through his atrocious Persian.

"Greetings," he said, but his voice came from behind me! I was vastly startled, and it showed: I spun about on my feet only to hear the Englishman speak again from my right. "I am here," the voice said, laughing at me.

I turned back, realizing the man must be an ventriloquist and surprised I had been shocked. I was approached by the three acrobats, who moved in the most unusual pattern I had ever seen around each other and the Englishman. When they stopped, the girl stood between her brothers, as I supposed them to be, and all three bowed in unison.

"Salaam," they said. The two boys spoke scarcely above a whisper, but the girl's voice was curiously deep, and hoarse, almost sensual, if I dared say so.

Then, the three moved back and turned, giving me a perfect view of the dark boy and his companion. Instinctively, I bowed and greeted them.

The dark boy introduced the group. He was Moses Bazzi; the three acrobats were Jorge, Carmen, and Hugo, and I realized them to be Spanish. The Englishman was Jack White, and Moses Bazzi's companion was Kizzy Ferko. Moses Bazzi gave no hint of the identity of the cloaked figure, and I did not ask. I merely began to welcome the party to Persia, but Moses Bazzi interrupted me.

"A trifle late for that, daroga," he said. "We have been in Persia for more than five days. Perhaps you would care to welcome us to Mazanderan Court, once you have taken us there?"

I smiled lightly, hiding my shock at the boy's audacity. He had to be less than twenty, yet he spoke to me as though he was my better. "Of course," was the only thing I could say to that, and then I turned to lead them to Mazanderan Court.

Mazanderan Court is a very grand place, golden and shining in the Persian sun like nothing else in the country. There is a unique splendor to the grand architecture and the people who inhabit the place. Something beautiful and dark, sinister and oozing with danger lurks in Mazanderan Court. Court magicians shrouded in shadow instilled fear deep into the hearts of those who dared stand up to those who ruled there, and the shah ruled with absolute power. None dared speak ill of him in his presence, save for his mother, the khanum, the sultana.

As I led the group of seven to Mazanderan Court, none of us spoke. Jorge, Carmen, and Hugo, the acrobats, moved about the group and inspected their surroundings with unabashed curiosity, the likes of which I have not seen before nor after. The others moved with no brazenness, and they moved with relaxed strides.

I must confess I was still slightly uneasy around them at this point. The predatory grace of the sinewy siblings showed me how easily they could render me immobile, and the English ventriloquist reminded me of someone with the same skills, and more, who I would rather have not thought of at that moment, not to mention his robed and hidden companion. Moses Bazzi, the slim boy whose talent I did not know at the time, seemed never to blink, and his gaze was unwavering and penetrating.

The only of the companions who had not made me the least restive was Moses Bazzi's accompaniment, the girl named Kizzy Ferko. She seemed to be as ordinary as Europeans were, though I admit I knew little of Europeans at the time. Kizzy Ferko was the only one who had offered the merest hint of a smile or compassionate glance at my humiliation by the ventriloquist Jack White.

I found no need to turn back to see if they followed along the streets, for the constant darting about of the Spanish trio was as good of a telltale sign as any that the rest were not far behind.

The three acrobats seemed fascinated by the bustle of the streets, though I am sure they had seen the same sort of thing before. I imagine now it must have been some vague amusement of theirs to see the expressions of those they approached, for I recall catching their small dark gazes and seeing laughter in them.

When I reached the great gate that separated Mazanderan Court from the common civilians, I paused and waited for them all to stand near me. I glanced at Moses Bazzi before speaking.

"I welcome you, formally, to Mazanderan Court, palace and abode of the shah-in-shah and sultana."

Jack White's voice spoke from high above me. "Astounding."

I only assume he spoke about the gate, for nothing else seemed extraordinary to me. Though I had been there so long, perhaps the beauty had lessened some for my eyes. I did catch a slight smirk on the features of Moses Bazzi, and Kizzy Ferko lifted a hand to cover her smiling mouth. I noticed right away how large her hand was, and how much strength rested in her wrists and arms. At that moment, I questioned how harmless she was, but I still had no inkling as to what she might be famous for.

Jack White's companion turned to look at me before speaking in the Englishman's ear. He looked at me as well, his voice coming from his person now. "This is Schneewittchen. It means 'Snow White' in German, daroga." I bowed formally to Schneewittchen, surprised I had learned anything about her. "She will come up to join you, daroga, but do not touch her." I was surprised, but nodded so as to reassure the Englishman I would not touch his (for I did indeed consider the robed girl 'his') Schneewittchen. I even linked my hands behind my back to further satisfy him.

Schneewittchen promptly appeared by my side, and I felt her gaze on me from behind her veil. "Salaam," she said. I replied in kind, and then she spoke again in that unearthly voice of hers. "Guten tag." I recognized the language as German, but I admit I knew no German. I merely nodded, realizing she meant to test my knowledge of different languages. She switched back to Arabic, and I realized she must not know Persian. "Is Persia very different from Egypt, daroga?" she inquired.

I was quiet for a moment before replying, surprised by her question. "It is different. We are both ancient countries, with different customs and languages. We are more different than Europeans realize, I am afraid. But we are both Muslim countries."

"I see," she answered, and was silent again, looking at me as I turned forward again. After a moment she turned and let Jack White escort her once more.

I then passed through the gates, the four guards standing around them bowing to us. The seven all followed me (or at least Jorge, Carmen, and Hugo did) for a few footsteps before turning back. I pivoted to regard the gate to see Schneewittchen standing beneath them, her head tilted back and her arms spread wide. I spotted her white fingers. They were not white like Jack White's were, but they were white like Russian snow or clouds.

Jack White must have seen me staring, for he quickly moved to Schneewittchen's side and blocked my view of her. But before he could fully bring her back from her private moment of what I guessed to be ecstasy, she let out a hum that made all the hairs on my body stand on end.

The sound was primal and utterly uninhibited. It was perhaps even more unreal because I could not see a whiff of her, nor did I have any idea what she looked like. The sound disturbed one of the guards at the gate as well, and he shifted his weight. I only watched as Jack White roused the girl from the privacy of her thoughts, and then I turned back to continue to the palace.

Jorge, Carmen, and Hugo resumed wandering around us, and they seemed as scouts inspecting their surroundings. They moved through the air as if they were swimming, and approached those they studied very closely. One of the boys moved very closely to two odalisques and put his face a hand's breadth from theirs. He made a sudden squawking noise and the two girls shrieked in unison and raced away from his laughing form, running into a shocked eunuch who had come to inspect the sound. The two girls quickly raced away from us, and the eunuch turned an angry eye upon me. I gave him a harsh look and he turned away. It would do no good if they should be punished while under my watch.

We made our way past the private apartments of various officials and guests at court, and then past the harem, before reaching the palace itself. I paused before the grand doors, and they gathered around me.

"The shah-in-shah has given you a great honor by inviting you to Mazanderan Court," I said, speaking in Arabic for Schneewittchen. Moses Bazzi, however, pursed his lip, as I looked at each of them in turn, and I realized he thought I believed they were simpletons. I switched to Persian so as not to insult them. "His mother, the sultana, will be in attendance as well. Remember to show them due respect." With a simple wave of his hand, Moses Bazzi bade me lead the way inside.

I looked at the guards on either side of the door, swords strapped to their sides, and they bowed and obliged my silent request. They swung the door open, and I passed through the doors after the group.

I moved to the front once more and led them down the long hall until we stopped before a heavy red curtain that separated us from the room the sultana and shah-in-shah were in. They moved about, and then the curtain was suddenly thrust aside by a gloved hand.

A tall, darkly garbed man stopped from just behind the curtains, partially hidden behind the other half of them. It was Erik, one of the sultana's favorites who had been commissioned by the shah in the beginning. He glared out at the group with dislike.

Schneewittchen was less than a short stone-throw's away from him, having moved to feel the material of the curtains. The rest were farther back, and Erik's gaze rested on the hidden visage of the girl.

I was behind Schneewittchen, but Erik later told me she pulled at a string tied loosely around her waist and simply pushed the obstructive cloak away from her. I was shocked by the girls appearance: her entire body was whiter than snow, from her hair to her skin. Even her gown, which flowed down and hugged her slim form was white. She appeared fascinated by the full-face mask Erik wore, which was almost as white as her skin, and she moved forward to touch it. I do not know if she had any intentions of removing it, but Erik pulled back, eyes sparkling dangerously.

At his sudden movement, Schneewittchen gave a soft noise that was not quite a discernible sound, her hand wavering before her, and then she fell as a dancer to the ground, her hand falling last.

A knife whistled past my ear.


	2. Devil's Child

Schneewittchen, the white girl, had collapsed onto the marble floor. The English ventriloquist rushed to her side and knelt there, lifting her head in his hands and pulling her somewhat into his arms. I, however, was more interested in the knife that had embedded itself into one of the gold buttons on Erik's dark coat. The knife quivered, and I realized the throw had not been accidentally harmless to Erik, for I heard no frustrated noises from any of the group.

Nor could I perceive who had thrown the knife when I turned to the company after exchanging an incredulous look with Erik. He was still as I inspected the five who remained behind me, that is to say, the three acrobats, Moses Bazzi, and Kizzy Ferko. Jorge, Carmen, and Hugo were tensed; they seemed prepared to pounce should Erik move. Moses Bazzi stared at me still, eyes remaining unblinking, and Kizzy Ferko had one hand still in Moses Bazzi's and the other slightly over her mouth in distress.

But I could not figure out who had thrown the knife so perfectly with such short notice. Such a talented thrower would surely be extremely valuable to the sultana. I am sure Erik realized it as well, for I turned back to him to see his eyes narrowed behind his mask. He strode forward, but the three acrobats stepped in his way. I imagine they had bared their teeth at Erik, which was a ridiculous notion in itself; the three of them seemed much paler next to the black European suit he wore. He met my gaze over their heads; Erik had always been much taller than most people I had known, and he towered over the three siblings.

I smirked and looked down at Jack White and Schneewittchen; the Englishman was covering the white girl once again in her heavy, concealing garb. I looked back up as the three siblings tensed themselves again, preparing for a physical attack from Erik, but I knew his methods were much subtler than that.

Erik lifted a gloved hand, and a sudden bang and puff of smoke from his outstretched arm startled me, but had little effect on the siblings, who merely pounced upon him. Only a few moments passed before he had one of the boys (I could not tell them apart) lifted into the air with a hand around his neck. The other two fell back, and at a look from me Erik tossed the boy backwards into his siblings.

"Daroga," he said, "please tell me this is not that group of tricksters the khanum ordered you to fetch."

I only gave him a pointed look, and his golden eyes narrowed at me before he swept past the three siblings and Jack White and Schneewittchen to stand mockingly before Moses Bazzi and Kizzy Ferko.

"I see that you have wasted your time," Erik continued, "for the sultana will find none of them worth her while. They are too young to appreciate her morbidity."

Moses Bazzi raised his eyebrows, and Kizzy dropped Moses Bazzi's hand and set her own on her hips, indignant. I was surprised that would insult such a juvenile girl, but it did inform me she understood Persian. She reached out and pulled the knife, which still stuck out perpendicular from Erik's chest, from the button; the button, however, refused to be budged and it ripped from Erik's vest along with the knife. Kizzy Ferko pried off the button and tossed it to her side. It skittered along the floor.

She inspected the knife with a casual air about her, then suddenly flipped it in her hand and made as if to stab Erik with a downward thrust.

He was too quick for her, and he slid backwards effortlessly so that the knife only cut into his coat. I realized with a shock it must have been Kizzy who had thrown the knife, and Erik must have realized it just then as well, for he narrowed his eyes at her and asked, "Would that have touched my skin?"

Kizzy looked him straight in the eye. "No, but you would have lost another button."

Erik gave a snort of amusement, and Moses Bazzi smirked wider than ever.

"You caused her to faint," came a dangerous voice from the air before Erik. Kizzy rolled her eyes and spoke in some European language to Jack White over Erik's shoulder; though I understood not a word of it, I figured she was scolding him. He replied in a similar fashion, and then Erik laughed. I did not understand what had passed between Kizzy Ferko and Jack White, but Erik must have. Their exchange greatly amused him.

Schneewittchen stirred just then, giving a tired moan in her strange voice, and Erik turned to her for a moment before sweeping away in his dangerous consuetude. Kizzy Ferko turned to watch him go, and when she turned back the knife in her hand had disappeared somewhere into the folds of her clothes.

I faced the curtain when a eunuch told us the shah and sultana were ready to see the group, and I snapped to garner their attention. They all turned to me, and I led them into the room where the shah and sultana waited, possibly the most impressive room they would see on their stay here if they did not bring great amounts of pleasure to the sultana.

I doubted, however, that the sultana could resist another ventriloquist, or a girl white from nimble fingers to overlong toes. Not to mention Kizzy Ferko and her knives, and the promise of dazzling talent in the three acrobats. I still knew nothing of Moses Bazzi's talent, but I suspected his was no less honed than that of Kizzy Ferko's or Carmen and her brothers'.

I was not disappointed.

---

_Later that day; Kizzy Ferko_

Moses was the one who began the show, bowing very deeply to the sultana and shah, almost as deeply as he had bowed to the man who had drawn away the dwarf singer from us in Egypt.

He started by creating a mist that flowed out from his fingers, and it soon covered the entire floor of the expansive room; Jorge-Carmen-Hugo lay on their stomachs and disappeared in the haze. No one knows Moses's secrets, not even I, and he is the most talented illusionist I have ever seen. Not that I've seen many, mind you, but I know Moses will be greater than any I do encounter.

He drew fire from the air, and created animals that revolved around him in a primal dance. One lion even roared, though I have always suspected that to be Jack White's own trick on Moses, and it startled the shah so badly I had to smile.

He did more things with his fiery animals, making one become a cloak for Carmen, who rose up and did such amazing things with her body I could scarcely believe they weren't illusions as well. When she had done something so complicated I couldn't hope to describe it, the fire-cloak Moses had made around her suddenly became no more than a cloud of mist in which Carmen stood with one foot in the air and her head thrown back. Her skin shone with perspiration, and she rose from the ground, seeming to float until her two brothers appeared beneath her.

Moses had made his way to stand beside me, and he caught my eye. The sultana and shah were watching the triplets move in that way of theirs, and so Moses and I exchanged funny faces until Schneewittchen gave a little snort of laughter, causing every gaze in the room to go to her robed form.

Jack White sensed the change of atmosphere, and spoke in a whisper. He spoke so it seemed he was right between the shah and sultana, and they seemed transfixed by whatever Jack White said. At a simple movement of his hand, Schneewittchen's robes folded around her and her white beauty was for all to see.

The sultana seemed very pleased by Schneewittchen, and I heard her say, "Another Angel of Death for my collection."

---

I was very curious to know who the masked man was.

Having been taught much of my throwing skills by an easily annoyed cousin, I had grown up believing it was better to play detective than to simply ask the person in charge, who in this case was the shah or sultana. And in this case, I was quite sure that principle would get me far more answers.

From the brief encounter I'd had with the man, I knew quite a bit about him. First, he had been in the shah and sultana's presence, which said mountains. Second, he was a magician, or something like that, seeing as he'd flicked his wrist and caused a great puff of smoke and a bang. Third, he was older than all of us, or thought he was, and was morbid, though I'm not sure how the two connect.

And he was also quick on his feet, which gave much more information about the man than anything else. Being quick on your feet meant you were aware of many things. I assumed the masked man had power in the court, and thus knew his power came with an ever-present promise of sellout. It was also obvious the man had much to hide, and he would go to any length to keep it hidden. Even if it meant wearing a mask, it seemed.

So I made it my little project to identify this masked fellow.

We were set up in a grand and complex apartment in Mazanderan Court with three bedchambers. Schneewittchen strangely requested I share a room with her instead of Jack White, so Jack and Moses were forced to room together. Carmen joined Schneewittchen and I, leaving Jorge and Hugo in favor of spending time with other females.

I told the girls of my project, and Carmen's eyes darkened with anger. He had, after all, almost strangled Hugo. Schneewittchen, however, perked up at the mention of the masked man, and so I turned to her and let Carmen simmer down.

"May I help you?" Schneewittchen asked, in German. She'd been very surprised and pleased when she learned I knew the language. I nodded, and she explained that she'd felt a connection to the man. "I am always hiding, Kizzy, for fear someone will think I am a ghost." If it was anyone else speaking, I would have laughed, but Schneewittchen's fears were not completely ungrounded. I'd met an albino boy who'd been called both angel and ghost, and I mused on the sultana's exclamation upon seeing Schneewittchen.

"He has his mask," I reasoned, "and you have your robes and veil." She nodded, and toyed with a bit of her white skirt. "Yes?" I prompted.

Schneewittchen looked at me hopefully. "Kizzy, what's it like to be in love?"

I was nothing short of thunderstruck by Schneewittchen's innocent question. "I, I don't know," I told her, and her shoulders slumped. "I mean, it's very nice. I never thought about it, really, I just knew it."

"Knew what?"

"That I was in love?"

Schneewittchen seemed confused at my uptalking, but Schneewittchen's probing was rather disconcerting. It was easier just to believe I was in love with Moses Bazzi than actually think about if it was true or not. And I did love him, very much. I sighed, and rested my hands palm-up on my knees. "Look, it'll make your heart stop. So they say."

"Who?"

"Everyone." I shrugged. "Why do you ask, anyways?"

Schneewittchen played with her skirt again before looking me in the eye. "I think Jack White loves me, Kizzy, and I don't love him. At least, I don't think I do."

I gave her a little smile, pitying her. Of course Jack White loved her, how could he not? He cared for her; he adored her beyond anything. How could anyone doubt his affection for her, after he'd stood up to that masked man? After a moment, I pushed a bit of her white hair behind her white ear.

"Don't worry, Schneewittchen, everything will turn out for the best."

"I do hope so, Kizzy," she said, smiling a little. "You are very lucky, to have Moses and love with him loving you back. It must be very wonderful."

Carmen spoke for the first time, in Arabic. "I don't understand why you have to talk in some godforsaken Germanic language," she snapped. "It's very annoying, you know. I can't understand a word of anything besides your names."

"I'm terribly sorry, Carmen," I said, laughter in my voice. "We were talking about how funny it was when you fell off that camel when we got here."

Carmen flushed and proceeded to throw a pillow at me. Chaos ensued, and we laughed in our childish amusement.

I lived for those moments.

---

The first person I went to was the Daroga, though it took a few days for me to encounter him alone. He was wearing a bit of a dejected air, the sort Moses wore on the anniversary of the death of his adoptive family, at which time he was usually quite clipped in tones, even to me.

So naturally, I approached the Daroga with a rather low expectation.

He was surprised to see me, but bowed politely. "Salaam, Miss Ferko."

"Salaam, Daroga." He seemed to size me up, and I spoke before he could. "I was wondering if I might inquire after your spirits."

"I beg your pardon?" The Daroga seemed quite shocked, but recovered. "I am well, thank you."

"I was also wondering if I might inquire after that strange fellow who we met on our first visit to the sultana."

"Erik?"

I smiled. Surprise was the best element, and even the Daroga seemed surprised that he let the name slip. "Yes, that is who I mean." The Persian fellow slipped me a sideways look. "For I have not seen hide nor hair of him since that encounter, and I was hoping to apologize for ruining his coat."

The Daroga gave a dismissing wave of his hand, but I noted he was slightly unnerved. "It is of no matter. I shall tell him you apologize."

"Ah, but Daroga, it is very impolite not to beg forgiveness where I am from. I am sure you understand."

This was, of course, nonsense. Where I was from, you were lucky to get away from any misdeed without having shed blood or starved for a few days. Apologies were for the higher circles, and people who moved in them.

The Ferko family certainly never had moved any higher than I was moving right now.

The Daroga smiled at me. "Of course, Miss Ferko. I shall ask Erik if he will deign it in his power to meet with you. I must warn you, though, do not be surprised if you are disappointed."

"I doubt it, Daroga," I said, sweetly. I bowed to him (I never curtseyed) and left him standing in the courtyard for a moment before he left in the opposite direction I was going in. He disappeared behind a building, and Schneewittchen suddenly appeared at my elbow.

Had I not been used to her appearing from thin air, I surely would have screamed. Her nose was mere inches from mine, and I hastily took a step back.

"His name is Erik, Schneewittchen," I said, "and he will meet with me so I can apologize for ruining his coat." At Schneewittchen's frown, I explained to her how I had thrown a knife at him when she had fainted. She gave a little laugh.

"You shouldn't worry about me so much, Kizzy, I have Jack for that." I rolled my eyes at her, and she sobered. "Kizzy, he is very good to me."

"He treats you like a child," I reminded her, "and you do not love him as he thinks you do." Schneewittchen looked away, and we were both pleasantly surprised when Hugo and Jorge came from where the Daroga had been going. They were pushing each other, like regular brothers did, and I smiled and waved to them. Hugo came and linked his arm in mine.

"I just saw the Daroga, my friend, all in an uproar. What did you do to him?" he teased. Jorge punched him on the arm. "Hey, stop that." Hugo turned back to me, but I disengaged myself when I saw Schneewittchen's clouded expression. Hugo frowned, having noticed the same thing. "What's wrong, little one?"

I realized for the first time Hugo calling Schneewittchen 'little one' was because of her innocence, not because she was taller than him and it was funny.

Schneewittchen looked at all three of us, and suddenly laughed aloud, startling all of us.

"Why, can you not feel the promise of rain?"

So perplexed were we that we let it slip that it never rained in the Persian summers.

---

The next day, the sultana summoned Schneewittchen and myself to her private chambers. Jack White covered Schneewittchen in dark clothes and went with us, always reluctant to leave her side, but the sultana's odalisque told him only 'those two' were to enter. Had I not given him a look and flashed him one of my knives, he would have made such a scene that I would not have been surprised if the sultana ordered that he be cut down straightaway.

But he left, glaring daggers at the odalisque, who shuddered and made me laugh. She led us into the sultana's chambers, and I found myself pausing in the threshold before moving forward to bow.

The masked man, who I now knew to be Erik, was glaring at me. Clearly, he'd had no idea we were coming, and the sultana's badly veiled smiled confirmed my suspicions.

"Ah, my second angel of death."

The woman spoke in Persian, and Schneewittchen glanced at me, a frown in her features. She'd taken off her veil to show her face, but no more. The sultana frowned at Schneewittchen unresponsive facade.

"Does she not speak Persian?" she demanded of me.

"No, sultana, she does not, I'm afraid," I said, looking the woman in the eyes. Her lips thinned, rather unattractively so, and she narrowed her eyes at Schneewittchen.

"The Daroga was telling me of your knives." I nodded; I'd expected as much. "My angel of death—" she gestured at Erik— "was rather surprised by you."

"Yes, he does not think us old enough to appreciate anything morose."

"And is he wrong?"

A challenge! I never backed down from a challenge. "Certainly. He does not seem so old himself." Erik gave me a clear view of his wish for my instant death. "Unless he uses India ink to dye his hair. And I cannot tell if he has wrinkles on his face."

I knew I was pushing it, but I needed to gauge out the sultana's personality. And since she was genuinely amused by my comments, I could not back down from how I was acting. But what she demanded of Erik was something I was not eager to have instigated.

"Show your face, my angel of death," she ordered. "Let's see how old she thinks you to be then."

Erik's hands twitched, and his hands rose to his mask very, very slowly, his gaze boring into me.

But it was Schneewittchen who saved me from certain death, for she rushed forward, her concealing clothes pooling around her feet as she pulled the mask off of Erik's face in a strange act of impatience.

I tried to make my eyes lose their focus; I had no idea what was beneath the mask, and I knew knowing such a thing so early in our nonexistent relationship would make my project to know him futile. Secrets should be told in confidence, not ripped away forcibly.

The sultana had an audacity and a total disregard for privacy that I'd never seen before. Even my prying grandmother was nothing compared to this woman.

But of course, my profession once again failed me. I could never _not_ focus on a target. So it was with a heavy heart that I took in the mixture of repugnance and horror in Erik's eyes, and let my gaze rest on his face.

Erik was European, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The left side of his face was even what I might have considered handsome, if it hadn't been almost as pale as the white mask in his hands. And he had thick dark hair, something I'd always admired in a man.

But the other side of his face captured my attention.

It was... wrong. The skin was too loose in places and too taut in others; his nostril was too wide and it was just _wrong_.

It was so wrong that I think a tear formed in my eye, even with the sultana proclaiming the wonder of her angel of death.

Angel of death, indeed. This man was no angel. He was more of a devil than an angel, and from the look in his eyes, he knew it.

_Devil's child_.

Something jogged a memory. A gypsy fair, with signs proclaiming the devil's child. I remembered half of a babyish face, still getting used to being a man, and then I realized this was him.

Erik was the devil's child.


	3. Meeting Marie Stavo

I was only six on the day that I encountered the gypsy fair that was carting the "devil's child" around. My cousin Vlastik was much older— he was seventeen, and he was the one who took me to the fair. If my uncle knew about it, he would surely have flogged my cousin, but I had no great love for my uncle and I was very close with my cousin. And one does not see what I saw that day very often. Even at six, I could recognize the magnificence of what I saw.

Vlastik had asked my uncle Milan if he could take me out, so I would not dwell so much on my mother's death. My mother, Evalina, had died at the beginning of the month, and I had loved her so much that I had cut off four inches of all my hair and buried it with her, so she might always have a part of me with her. Uncle Milan was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it.

But Vlastik was very happy, because now he could take me to the gypsy fair and pretend I was a boy.

So he put me in some of his old clothes, thanking me for having rough, big hands and big feet, and settled me on his shoulders, teasingly calling me little Max after my dead father, whom I had never known.

Up on Vlastik's shoulders, I decided I would be tall when I grew up, so I could see all around me easily. I also decided being a boy was much more fun, because being a boy let me sit on Vlastik's shoulders and be as unruly as I liked. He bought me an apple from a street vendor; I took bites out of the round fruit and was ecstatic when the juice ran down my chin.

The gypsy fair was a few miles south of Trnava, my city, and at the bridge that crossed the river, Vlastik made me swear never to tell anyone who might tell Uncle. I swore, and so he took me across the bridge.

It took us about an hour to reach the camp, since Vlastik's horse had busted a shoe, and he made me walk by myself sometimes. Vlastik always had sore shoulders, or so he liked to say. I think it was really because he didn't like to do work.

The gypsy camp frightened me a little at first. I wasn't used to seeing such strange talents; a pretty voice or tips at a piano or violin were as interesting as they got for me. But after the initial shock, seeing bodies twisted into circles and men swallowing knives and belching fire and women reading cards and palms and crystal balls was beyond describable.

Vlastik pointed out an old woman who was a bit back from the crowd, barefoot and with pale eyes visible from a distance. He'd swung me off his shoulders, and I followed him to the old woman.

She was sitting on a log and was stitching on a bit of sackcloth, her eyes following us as soon as we began to approach her. Her hair was long and graying from black in a braid down her back, though a few strands hung around her slightly sagging neck.

My cousin bowed to her, and I almost curtseyed; I caught myself just in time, but the old woman seemed to sense my confusion as to how to greet her.

"This is girl, yes?"

The woman spoke in broken Czech, and she peered at me with her light eyes. She reached out as if to touch my face, but I scampered back before she could touch me. The old woman laughed, nodding and speaking in another language I didn't know to herself.

Vlastik eyed her, and nodded. "Yes, she's a girl," he said. I had a little knife stuck in my little boot. "But right now, she is a boy. Max. I am Vlastik."

The woman's eyes danced. "I am Marie Stavo Popa."

"Charmed," Vlastik said, and when Marie Stavo extended her hand regally, he kissed the back of it with great formality. I thought it was all very funny at the time, seeing as I'd been taught my whole life that gypsies were bad people and I was better than they were. Marie Stavo, however, commanded respect.

I was slightly frightened by her, but Vlastik kicked me slightly and I bowed to her properly. My uncle always said Vlastik was soft, but his Hessian boots all had pointed toes.

Marie Stavo chuckled at my little scared glance at her, and beckoned me closer. Vlastik kicked me again when I hesitated, so I inched towards her. She bent over a bag at her side and rummaged through, the clinking glass inside making me curious. She pulled out a little bunch of berries and bade me look at them. They were purple and plump, and the stem was purple as well.

"That's pokeweed, Miss Max. It's from China, but don't eat it! It's poisonous to us. Only the birds can eat it safely," Marie Stavo whispered to me.

"They don't get poisoned by it?"

"And don't ever eat the pit of cherry! It kill you, if not make you throw up your very bowels!"

Vlastik seemed quite fascinated with Marie Stavo's grim warnings, for he plucked the pokeweed from my open palm and held it near his eyes, turning it around in the air. "This could kill someone, you say?"

Marie Stavo nodded, and Vlastik said, "May I have this?"

"Heavens, no, child! Why, this plant may cure someone in pain. And that is my job, you know. Not amusing small children and foolish boys like you." Vlastik made a face at her, and she laughed delightfully. She had a laugh very much like my mother, Marie Stavo did. She stood suddenly, holding her sackcloth still, and I remember reaching up to touch it.

The woman did something very strange then, for she put the sackcloth over my head and bent down to hiss in my ear. I did not understand her, but she gave me a little shake of the shoulders to emphasize her point. It was frightening; I couldn't see a thing, and so I pulled out my little knife and cut two holes so I could see, afraid she would hit me for taking it off.

I did get slapped, but not by Marie Stavo. Vlastik hit me on the back of the head. "Don't ruin other people's things, you little chit!" he said.

But Marie Stavo picked me up in her arms, and took off the sackcloth from over my head. "I was to do the very same that she did," the woman told Vlastik, "so do not hit her."

"Why on earth would you put that on someone?" Vlastik said, angry. "No one deserves that."

"Ah," Marie Stavo said. "Ah. For here you are so, so wrong. There are some who deserve it."

"Who?" I said.

"The devil's child, of course, my lamb."

Indeed, I remembered Vlastik commenting on the main attraction here, the devil's child, to me on the way to the fair. The sun was still in the sky; it was mid afternoon, and we would be expected home soon, but Marie Stavo turned and led Vlastik into a tent. She spoke in the language she'd spoken to me with to a younger woman, who I thought looked very much like her.

The younger woman took me from Marie Stavo, and I struggled for a bit until the woman pinched my ear lightly, and tapped my nose while smiling.

Marie Stavo led the way, but when we stopped in front of another tent with a large sign that I could not read, the younger woman shook her head and put me down. "No," she said, and went away.

Vlastik took me up instead, and Marie Stavo led us inside the tent.

The tent smelled very much like my mother's deathbed had after they had taken her away. There was a large cage inside, with a little shape in the corner. Vlastik put me down slowly, and I ran around the outside of the cage to the shape. I put my hands on the bars, and put my face as far as I could into the cage. The shape was a boy, curled up in restless slumber. I could only see his bare back, his spine visible through his welted skin.

There was a particularly horrid slash through his back, and a little bit of blood was still glistening on the open cut. Vlastik had come up behind me and I asked him for his handkerchief, which he gave me even as he stared at the boy. Marie Stavo watched me with great wonder.

"Children, so fascinating," she mumbled.

I reached through the bars and just managed to reach the boy; the moment I touched his bloodied back with the handkerchief he awoke, spinning on me and grabbing my wrist. It hurt, and I flapped my hand about as best I could before looking up at the boy's face.

He was wearing a sackcloth bag over his head! I stared at Marie Stavo, and the boy glanced at her angrily before letting go of me and crawling over to the middle of the cage, where a small stuffed monkey lay on the dusty ground.

He let out a little moan when the cut on his back opened again; a fresh trail of blood made its way across the ridges of dozens of scars.

"This is the devil's child, so they say," Marie Stavo informed us, and the boy gave an angry cry. I imagine his eyes were quite wild, but his voice was very beautiful. Even listening to just his senseless noises, I knew that much.

"Wouldn't a devil use black magic to get out of here, Vlastik?" I said, twisting to look at my cousin.

"He's human like me and you," Vlastik said icily.

"Erik is far better than both of you, for he is angel as well," Marie Stavo said.

I shook my head. "No, he's not got wings."

"I suppose you shall say those scars used to be his wings?" Vlastik said.

Marie Stavo bristled, and I called out quietly to the boy. "Erik?" I said. "Who took away your wings?"

He turned his head to me, and I saw his eyes through two holes in the sackcloth. He was frightening, and he only wore ragged breeches. Erik was quiet for a moment. "People like you," he answered, his accent flawless. "Go away."

"But I did not meet you before right now," I said, and I pushed my face back against the bars. "And I would never hurt an angel. Angels are messengers of God. They have pretty voices. They're very pretty."

He tore the sackcloth from his face, and I shrieked when the sackcloth landed on my face.

But I was silent when the boy snatched it away from me, and stuck his face very close to mine. He smelled so much like death! But I looked at him, twisted my mouth into a frown, and shook my head. "You're faking."

He laughed, and he sounded quite crazy. Vlastik picked me up and took me away, the boy's laughter echoing in my mind. I was very frightened, but Marie Stavo ran after us as Vlastik strode away from the camp.

"Wait! Wait!" Marie Stavo called. But Vlastik kept going, ignoring her, and she stopped on the road behind us. I turned to watch her from up on Vlastik's shoulders, and she seemed very small.

---

"So, my little knife-thrower, how old would you say my angel of death is?"

The sultana's voice snapped my attention from Erik. She was watching me very closely, and I smiled at her. "Why, he must be as old as the earth itself, sultana, for only something that old could have such a nasty face. Either that, or he is younger than even I, for he has quite an immature stature."

The sultana turned her eyes away from me to Schneewittchen, who was being very quiet. She still held Erik's mask in her hand, and was looking between it and Erik.

In German, she said, "He does not need all of this, Kizzy, he only needs half."

Erik snatched the mask and surprised us both by replying in perfect German. "Can you deny the limitations of half of a face as opposed to none at all?"

Schneewittchen thought for a moment, and then shook her head. "It is incongruous."

"Humor is incongruity," I mumbled to myself.

The sultana did not take to our conversation in a language she did not understand. "Stop that. Erik, leave. And you," she added, her voice softening. "Your name?"

"Kizzy Ferko, sultana," I said, and bowed.

"Does the girl speak Arabic?"

I nodded, slowly. The sultana waved Erik and I away, and I squeezed Schneewittchen's shoulder as I passed her. Erik stopped before her and she gave him his mask, and I noticed his fingers brushed hers before he pulled away, quickly. He put on his mask, and I noticed his very long fingers.

Erik followed me out of the sultana's chambers, and as soon as the doors were closed behind us he grabbed my arm and bent so his face was very close to mine. I could smell him; he still smelled like a deathbed after all the years.

"What do you mean by this?" he hissed at me. "Do you mean to make a fool out of me?" He pushed me so my back was against a wall, and he leaned over me like a monster.

"I mean to stay alive and far from harm, that's what I mean." I pursed my lips. "I was going to apologize for ruining your coat, but since I shall now have bruises, I see no need." Erik took his hands from my arms, and turned away. He ran a hand through his hair. "So how old are you, anyway?"

He glared at me.

I shrugged. "I thought I might as well ask, you know, so I can connect you with someone of the same age so I am not forever comparing you to a babe."

"I am older than you, and that is all you need ever know."

"I don't suppose the name Marie Stavo means anything to you."

He turned on me, very slowly. "Where did you hear that name?" His voice was very soft, and I felt a promise of death in it. "Who told you that name?"

"I met her once, many years ago. I do not think it is of any great importance, though. I was merely thinking you were so very much like a boy she showed me."

He swallowed, and I could sense his strong desire to murder me that very moment.

Fortunately for me, Nadir Khan came around the corner just then, and Erik spun on him. "This girl is not to see me again, Daroga." He swept away, but I heard him add, "Unless you wish for her severed head to be placed upon your pillow."

The Daroga turned to me, shocked. "What did you do to him, Miss Ferko?"

"He was the devil's child, wasn't he," I said. The Daroga paled, and he placed his hand against the wall. "I saw him, many years ago. Ten, I think. I was six."

"Where? You must tell me where. Please," he implored.

"Why, just outside of Trnava. My hometown. In Slovakia."

"And you saw him?"

"If he was the devil's child. I must say I've never seen such a face before or since, not counting Erik's." I gave a little laugh. "You know, Marie Stavo thought he was an angel and a demon, all in one. I told him he was faking being everything."

"Everything?"

"I was very young, Daroga. I'd barely been five miles out of Trnava. And I'd been taught from very early to hate the gypsies, and that they aren't to be trusted."

"Do you trust them?"

"I do now. They frightened me back then."

The Daroga turned away from me, and linked his hands behind his back. "I must ask you to remain here, and wait for your pale friend. I will go speak to Erik on your behalf, Miss Ferko, for I do not know how easy it will be to keep you from seeing each other."

"It would be impossible, I am sure. Let's not forget the sultana seems to have an eye for tension."

"That is very true." The Daroga bowed and left me waiting for Schneewittchen.

I waited for a very long time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Daroga_

I found myself very nervous as I approached Erik's apartment. More than once, I had found myself faced with his temper, and I had a great desire never to encounter it again. Erik was not the sort of man one tangles with. And because Kizzy Ferko had not known that, she was compromising not only herself, but also me.

It was not entirely her fault, for the sultana usually is to blame for Erik's occasional fury. I am quite sure Kizzy was not sure how to delicately handle the situation, and chose to please the sultana over Erik, seeing as the sultana was in charge.

But Erik also had power, in his own dark way. Thus I was not surprised to find him sitting in a chair, a small bottle of morphine on the table.

"Erik is at a loss," he said, "for who would cry for such a monster?"

I paused in the doorway of the room. "Who cried for you, might I ask?"

"Erik does not know, Erik does not care," he said. He picked up the morphine and fitted it into a needle.

"It is bad enough that you use that," I said sharply. "But it is quite another thing to lie."

He rounded on me, his golden eyes quite narrow behind his mask. "Erik does not lie."

"Was it Kizzy Ferko?"

Erik was very quiet, and he turned the needle around in his fingers. "Erik remembers Marie Stavo, Daroga. She called Erik an angel."

"Kizzy Ferko said you faked everything."

"Erik didn't mean it, Erik didn't want to."

"I don't understand, my friend, tell me." Erik was making no sense, even though I was used to him referring to him in the third person.

"Erik is no angel, Daroga, but Erik dreams of it."

I put my hand on Erik's shoulder, unsure as always how to comfort him. I watched as he put the needle at the crook of his elbow and pushed in, and his barely audible hiss as the morphine flowed into his bloodstream.

If this was what it meant to be a genius, I was quite sure I did not want to be one.


	4. Rosamaria Z Breher

I left soon after Erik injected the morphine. He did not tell me who or what he had meant when he declared someone had cried for him; however, I still was certain that it had been Kizzy Ferko, considering she had been the last person to see him before me.

I was suspicious of Kizzy for another reason: she had asked to meet Erik. Clearly, she was curious about him; no excuse of apologizing could cover for that. Though it could have been that she was doing it for Schneewittchen.

Yet Schneewittchen did not seem the sort to cry, certainly not about physical imperfections. Yes, Schneewittchen had a pretty face, but the utter snow whiteness of her features took so much away that one would never notice the classic contours there. I was certain she rarely was subject to anything besides gawking stares.

So Kizzy Ferko was the only person I could think of. It certainly wasn't the sultana; that would have been laughable.

But why, I wondered? And who was this Marie Stavo?

I knew the answers would be long in coming.

---

The next day, I spotted Schneewittchen, the white-haired girl, walking with one of the Spanish boys. There was no hope of telling Jorge and Hugo apart, and I was certain Moses Bazzi did not specify on purpose. Surely he thought I would be embarrassed, or at least confused.

The latter would be far worse— to be confused in Mazanderan Court is to be dead. So I decided it would be better to not address the pair at all.

Schneewittchen, however, had other plans.

"Daroga!"

She ran towards me, her face slightly pinched and her eyes lined in kohl, for reasons I had no idea of. Her unearthly voice was trembling, and it sounded as though she were about to collapse within herself. She stopped before me, the Spanish boy hovering by her as though he feared she might fall. It seemed to be a perfectly reasonable concern, by my account.

"Daroga," she said. "Daroga, please help me. I do not want to be an angel. Please."

Schneewittchen spoke in Arabic, and the Spanish boy pulled her to him and stroked her hair, whispering in Spanish into her ear. She ignored him, only staring at me, frightened. I could only assume it had been the sultana who had unnerved her so.

"What is wrong with being an angel, child?"

"It was an angel that brought death upon the firstborn, was it not?" She was frantic now, her chin trembling and her hands fisted together. "An angel of death. I am not an angel!"

I merely watched as she burst into sobs, the Spanish boy pulling her closer and humming a soothing tune into her ear. She sniffled into his shoulder, and tried to join him. I wondered what her singing voice sounded like, and strangely I found myself placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Please, do not be distressed. Everything will turn out for the best."

She seemed surprised by my sentiments, and in truth so was I. The Spanish boy looked curiously at me, and I think he realized I was quite far from being in charge. After a moment he whispered something to Schneewittchen, who made a little 'o' with her mouth and turned back to me.

"Daroga, may I request something of you?" she said.

"I cannot promise the request will be granted."

"Please, please, just let me say it."

I nodded.

"Tell Erik— tell him I am sorry."

---

I left the Court for the remainder of the day, and found myself wandering back to where I'd first met the group of performers.

Afshin, the man who had been ordered to fetch the group from As Samawah where they had last been before venturing to Mazanderan Court, had left them waiting for me at his parents' inn. The inn was not very large, nor was it anywhere close to the grandeur at Court, but it was an honest place. No bloodshed from this little lodging.

I saw a cart outside that had been there when I had been there last. He seemed to be having a good time, chatting with Afshin. I overheard him say "Moses Bazzi", and I moved towards him as a hawk.

"Daroga!"

Afshin was shocked to see me, and bowed low. I had my eyes on the vendor.

"You know Moses Bazzi?"

He nodded, frowning. "He has been making trouble at the palace? He's too big for being so little." Noting my quizzical expression, he explained in not so many words that Moses Bazzi had pride. Too much, it seemed, for it to be natural.

I was reminded of Erik, and the comparison startled me. Moses Bazzi— I'd met him once, only once! Yet he demanded that power, that respect that Erik did. Yet was it in him to do what Erik did?

And in all this, I remembered the fascination of Kizzy Ferko's of Erik. I was suddenly not so surprised that she was drawn to him, if that was what it was.

"— and so you must be quite shocked by them, eh?"

I was drawn back from my musings by the vendor's question. I nodded, nodded my head curtly at him, and left.

What sort of web was that group weaving themselves into?

**Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Schneewittchen_

The sun in Persia was so very bright, so much brighter than it had been in Berlin. I am from Berlin, you know, and I am not really named Schneewittchen. My name is Rosamaria Zölestine Dreher and I am an albino.

But I am not a ghost! I am not an angel, either, although the sultana told me I was. I do not believe her. I did not kill any children of Egypt. How can I be the angel of death? And how can there be more than one angel of death at a time?

I do not know any answers to my questions.

I know that the other angel of death is Erik. That's his name, I think, or that is was Kizzy told me it was. And she had learned it from the Daroga himself. She must have been right, then.

To tell the honest truth, I do not know why I fainted when I first saw him, only his mask was very, very white. It reminded me of my own face, and I thought he had skin as pale as mine. My eyesight is not very clear, so I could not tell he had it on until he had to move back. I do not know why he was afraid of me. I am quite harmless.

Carmen thinks that I am not so harmless, though. She says Jack White is so much in love with me that it will break his heart if I refuse him. But I do not love him. I told her so, and she laughed and said that I should tell Jack White the same thing.

I do not know if I should tell Jack White. He would be very unhappy, and we are all so very full of tension now that I think it would be a mistake to tell Jack White. He is not very good at being told he is wrong. He was very angry when Kizzy told him alcohol was forbidden to Moslems. Jack likes wine, but he never is influenced by it. I wonder why he likes it, but it is always better not to ask, or to have someone else ask. If I ask, they will think I am like them for wondering, and I do not want everyone to feel I am like them.

I do not mind if Kizzy and the triplets know I am like them, on the inside. Kizzy knows everything, about everybody, and everything. She is very perceptive. I think it comes from always looking for something to throw at. Kizzy throws knives, you know, and she is very good at it. Much better than I am at anything.

And the triplets? Jorge, and Carmen, and Hugo, they are so good. Such good people. I will not be able to stand being away from them, if I ever must be away from them. If Jack White is like my lover, Jorge and Hugo are like brothers. And Carmen, she is so wonderful to me. I cannot explain why, because she has so much more in common with Kizzy than me.

Carmen makes me laugh a lot. She always says what she thinks, and she is not very good at making people hear what they want to. She says what she wants to say, and that is why she does not talk very much when we are near strangers. Carmen has a very pretty voice also. It is very deep, almost like a boy's.

I never know what Kizzy thinks, because she is always hiding things in her eyes. She knows so so much, but she hides it. I wonder if she knows more about Erik, the angel of death, than she said. I do not know, but I would like to know everything about him.

Kizzy said she lied to the sultana about Erik when we were there. I do not know why the sultana wanted to see Kizzy Ferko, because Kizzy did not do very much with her knives. They only had me stand against a wall, moving slowly, and Kizzy threw knives in a perfect circle on the wall with rays.

That is nothing for our Kizzy. She could make a portrait with her knives. She has before, of Moses Bazzi. He kissed her when he saw it.

I wonder what kisses feel like. No one has ever kissed me, except on the cheek and hand and forehead. My father used to kiss my nose, and I would laugh.

Kizzy is very surprised that Jack White has not kissed me, since he loves me. But I realized that I do not want Jack White to kiss me. Kissing him would be wrong. I do not love him, so how could it be right?

I would kiss Erik. I do not know him, but he is like me, and two angels can kiss, can't they? Carmen says she has seen two angels kiss, in a dream. They were both very beautiful, but I am an angel, says the sultana, even though I am not beautiful. And Erik is not beautiful, not all of him. His face is like melted wax or a clay figure molded by a child who was not very good at molding clay. It is hard to describe.

But Erik has a voice! Oh, from the very first moment I was stunned by its beauty. And he speaks German as well! German never sounded so lovely, in all my years I have never heard it sound so pure.

If I was different, and normal, I would say to be ugly with a pretty voice is not natural. But I am what I am, so I know it is fate being kind when we stricken people have gifts.

I know I have a gift, but I do not know what it is yet.

---

The day after I was spoken to by the sultana, unkind woman that she is, I was walking with Hugo when we saw the Daroga, and I ran to him, calling out his name, or at least saying, "Daroga! Daroga!"

I told the Daroga I did not want to be an angel, not an angel of death, at least. I cried, and Hugo hummed a Spanish lullaby in my ear. It was Ay Mi Palomita, Oh My Little Dove. And the Daroga did something strange.

He comforted me, and put his hand on my shoulder, like a father.

And then I asked him to help me, because I felt very bad that I had taken Erik's mask away from him. I think I did it for Kizzy, because I think Erik does not like Kizzy. I understand him, because Kizzy pleased the sultana, and not Erik.

The Daroga said he would do so, and then he left.

He is a curious man. I think he does not know so much as people think.


	5. Ay Mi Palomita

_Hugo_

I decided early on that the little sultana was a very strange woman. She would have been attractive if she didn't reek of death.

Though I later realized the stench came not from her, but from the room itself, where her sick pleasures took place. Who but a madwoman would smile about an angel of death?

It troubled Schneewittchen very much to hear she had been referred to as an angel, even an angel of death.

"Does she not understand I am like her?" Schneewittchen had asked me. I shook my head, awed as always by her innocent ignorance of humankind; that is why I called her 'little one'. I did not know if the sultana knew we all were the same, really.

"I do not know," I had said, and Schneewittchen had tucked her hands in each other and looked away.

---

The day after Kizzy and Schneewittchen had been summoned to the sultana's chamber, I was walking with Schneewittchen and we came across the Daroga. I do not know exactly what happened in the chamber; I do not think even Schneewittchen knows. I only know what Kizzy said, and that is only what she wished for me to know. All I know is that Erik was there, and Kizzy was not there for the whole time. Other than that, I know nothing.

When Schneewittchen started to cry on my shoulder about her not being an angel, I whispered soft things to her, and then did what worked usually: I hummed her a lullaby, the lullaby my mother used to sing for Jorge and Carmen and I.

_Ay, mi palomita  
La que yo adore  
Le crecieran alas  
Y volo y se fue!_

_Ella no comia  
Ni frijolas ni arroz  
Y se mantenia  
Con solo mi amor._

_Me sente en un tronco  
A verla pasar.  
Y como no pasaba,  
Me eche a llorar._

She managed to hum along for a little, and then asked the Daroga to tell Erik that she was sorry. It seemed momentous to the both of them, Schneewittchen's apology, I mean, but to me saying sorry is not such an amazing thing. Perhaps they are not so civilized in Germany and Persia?

Though I do not think Señor Erik, as I call him when I talk about him, is Persian. He is so very pale, or so I thought when he was holding me by the neck when I first saw him. Though I do not know if it was his mask I thought was pale, or Señor Erik himself. But all of the Persians have brown eyes, and Señor Erik's are yellow. Or perhaps golden. But not brown.

Certainly not brown.

So I have decided that since Señor Erik is certainly not Oriental, he must be European. I guess that he is German; Schneewittchen said he spoke in German to her and Kizzy. Although Kizzy is not German and knows the language, so perhaps Señor Erik is not German either.

I do not know what to think about the man, to be honest. He is such a mystery. I have been in his presence for very few moments, and yet he is such an enigma that I cannot help but want to know everything about him. Of course, I doubt very much I shall ever know much more that what I know now, which is very little.

For some reason, Señor Erik does not seem the sort of fellow to convey his deepest secrets to a young Spaniard like me.

---

It has been more than two weeks since we arrived to Mazanderan Court, and the Sultana has not asked to see Jorge, Carmen, or myself. I am not very surprised; we cannot give anything to fuel her sick passions.

I learned three days ago what 'Angel of Death' meant. I have been romping about with Jorge and Carmen, and we have been friendly enough to Afshin that he has told us what the Angel of Death here in Mazanderan Court really is— or who, at any rate.

The Angel of Death is Erik, as I already knew, but now I know why.

He makes torture chambers, and kills people.

There, it is out. I could not believe it, but Afshin has assured me it is true. And to think I once thought the man was German! Germans would never do such horrors as Afshin described to me— pits of fire, halls of mirrors... it is too gruesome to relate all of the details. Carmen looked close to fainting by the time Afshin had finished telling all of it.

We three triplets have sworn not to tell Schneewittchen. She is such a child, and for her to know would only drive her into one of the chambers from curiosity or force.

She has taken too much interest in Señor Erik. Jack White has become increasingly concerned, for she is no longer like his shadow. He loves her so dearly; I pity the man, for he's a hopeless romantic. If I ever fall in love, it will be with someone who loves me, not with someone who needs me to survive. Because they all grow up in the end.

And now Schneewittchen is growing up, and leaving Jack White behind. I feel he will not leave Persia alive. It will be his ruin. And if it is not Persia, it will be Erik.

I wonder how long it will be before Schneewittchen does not come back to us until morning.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Kizzy Ferko_

The Daroga has done a wonderful job at keeping me away from Erik. I daresay even the sultana has no idea what he is up to, so tied up is she with Schneewittchen. I truly do pity her. Schneewittchen, I mean. She is destined for destruction, what with her ignorance about people like the sultana, and her unearthly complexion. And she unwittingly causes so much tension! More than me, even.

Last night, Jack White came to me, demanding information. He asks so little of Schneewittchen, and yet it is the one request that is impossible to give.

"She is not a child," I said to him.

"Of course she is not! But I need her, don't you see— she's my sanity! I'm going mad with rage and jealousy, you silly girl, and I'll very soon be past all reasoning!"

"I am not a silly girl, Jack. And you're drunk, or on hashish. Reasoning is pointless." I held up my hand, because Jack looked close to exploding. "Schneewittchen is not under anyone's control, least of all yours."

"You think you can manipulate her!" Jack bellowed. "And me! I will not be bullied like this, Ferko. You think you can be in charge of everything, because Moses bends to your every whim—"

"That's not true and you know it." I kept very calm, knowing that anger would only provoke him more; he was always wild with his tempers. "Moses can't be bullied by anyone."

Jack threw a string of curses at me, mixing all sorts of strange languages together— Arabic, some Persian, English, lots of English, and even some German and French and Spanish. I stood there, my right hand cupping my left elbow (I had hit it on the edge of a table earlier), very quiet and calm. He finished, panting as though he had just run a distance.

And that was when we saw the shadow in the open doorway.

Erik stood there, daunting as ever, sneering at Jack White.

"I suppose you know all those languages fluently? Or do you spend your hours learning curses instead of doing something more—"

"Go to hell," Jack spat out, and I stared at him with shock. Erik is not to be trifled with. That much even I know.

"I have been there. It is not so interesting. I would much rather spend my time in Rome or Venice."

"Or Mazanderan?" I said; he glared at me. "Jack, go away."

"So now you betray Moses as she betrays me!" Jack laughed, wild and with an evil passion. "You two sluts—"

His pale hair suddenly parted, and a thin red line of blood ran down the top of his skull. Jack touched his fingers to the cut my knife had inflicted, staring at me.

"_Never_ call her such a thing again, or you will have much more blood to clean from your yellow hair."

"And what about you?" Jack leered. "You do not deny it?"

"I want nothing more to do with this masked man than you. Leave, Jack, or I will cut your throat."

He left, knocking over a small glass jar in his stupor. The little jar never hit the floor; Erik suddenly appeared with it in his hands. "Your friend is such a pleasant fellow."

"He is angry," I countered. "And I understand why. I am angry, too, Erik. What sort of horrors have you been showing her?"

Erik laughed. "And that is all I am capable of! Horrors, indeed! I suppose it would be useless to tell the truth. Shall I just tell you how I have been manipulating her, taking over her mind and bending her to my will?"

"Oh, good sir, I would not doubt you could." I closed the door, took a deep breath, and smiled at him. "No one is listening now, Erik. You can tell me the truth, and I will not laugh."

"Laugh? I would think you might scream." His voice dripped sarcasm.

"I only scream when I am pretending to have some semblance of modesty. One has no chance of that with you."

He steepled his fingers under his chin, and he moved gracefully to lie out on the divan. I sat against the wall, and was shocked to see he was smoking the opium pipe that had been across the room!

"How did you do that? That is amazing, Erik!"

Erik waved his hand aloofly and took a puff of the opium. "A trifle." He tilted his head at me. "I should think you would be able to do much the same thing."

"Throwing and stealing are very different."

"Not at all." He closed his eyes; he seemed relaxed, yet I knew he could sense when I stood and went to open the window. "Your white-haired friend is quite the enigma. I have been trying to understand _why_ she is how she is."

"Her skin and hair?"

"Her mind! Surely she has been scorned all her life, for being different!" His voice was eager, and I was reminded of myself when I was younger and wanted to know something. "Yet she has no ill will towards a soul! Not even that odious woman, or towards anyone else! Erik cannot understand how she is so pure, how she is so good!"

Erik's outburst disturbed me greatly. I know the man is a genius, but who refers to themselves in the third person? I was deeply disturbed by his ramblings as he went on about the wonder of Schneewittchen. I sat down, overwhelmed by his sincerity and eagerness. What was so amazing about someone different being human?

He spoke long into the evening, and I was close to falling asleep by the time he took his leave.

That night, Schneewittchen and Carmen and I heard from Carmen's small statue of the Virgin Mary a lullaby, and Schneewittchen sobbed herself to sleep.

"My mother sang that to me, Kizzy," Carmen whispered. "And Hugo sang it to Schneewittchen." She was quiet for a moment. "Was that an_ angel_, Kizzy?"

"No," I whispered back, "something so much worse."

Her dark eyes glinted in the darkness, silently questioning what I could mean.

I rolled over, away from her gaze, and shuddered.

_Oh, Erik..._

---

The Daroga never knew of the visit Erik and I had, nor did he suspect anything had changed between us. Yet the balance of power in our relationship had suddenly changed— no longer were we enemies. I could not understand why he had suddenly opened up to me, for I had done nothing to apologize or recommend myself open to his presence. But Schneewittchen told me, in a rare moment of truth, that she had told him all about me.

I was angry at first, but I realized it had opened up so many possibilities between the two of us. Perhaps he thought I would help him understand Schneewittchen. I wonder if she ever told him her real name. Only Jack White knows, out of the seven of us. And he has sworn to take that particular fact to the grave.

From Erik's angry stares at Jack White as he left, I suspect that he will end up in the ground much quicker than any of us suspected.

* * *

_Note: The song Hugo sings to Schneewittchen is Mi Palomita (My Little Dove). I found the following translation online at http:// www. karenmerchant. com/ lyr/ mipalomita. htm (take out the spaces): _

_ Oh, my little dove  
Whom I adored,  
Who grew wings  
And flew away_

_ She did not eat  
Either beans or rice  
And she lived only  
On my love._

_ I sat upon a tree trunk  
To see her pass by.  
When she did not pass  
I burst into tears._


	6. The Little Box

I'm so sorry for the long delay. This is starting up in Kizzy's PoV, if you've forgotten and/or are too lazy to check back a chapter.

S.

* * *

I spent a few good minutes getting my knife out of the wall. The walls here are of such spongy make; I'm not used to having to put in effort to getting my knives out of walls. They just kiss the wood of most buildings, and bricks are just too simple to be difficult. I never did trust a place with difficult walls.

I am not sure why we have not been allowed to go. Not that we couldn't if we wanted to, but the sultana would rather we stay. All of us! Not just Schneewittchen and I, who are the only two she ever summons anymore. Jorge-Carmen-Hugo were only truly appreciated by the sultan, but he lost interest since his mother told him of the wonders of Schneewittchen's new personality.

The Angel of Death.

What sick sort of person _is_ she? The sultana, I mean. Schneewittchen is a sweet girl, she'd never hurt a soul. She does hate bugs, though.

I am horrified that the sultana is amused by the thought of an angel of darkness, of death. I certainly understand her fixation; I am no saint when it comes to things like this, but I do not need to see 'amusing deaths' in order to satisfy me. I only need to throw, or to move— how is such a woman tolerated as the ultimate power here?

They call her goddess of the universe, queen of everything, and she cannot even control her own urges. Sick, sick urges.

I am so ashamed of these Persians, that they permit her to lord over them. I wonder if the sultan would rule better on his own, or if has been so tainted by his mother that he would want the same things.

I find it strange to feel pity for Erik, but how I imagine his mind to be I cannot put into words. The pain he must suffer! To be a genius locked in a world by things out of his control. And for him to be so utterly hopeless, as he doubtlessly is— I would surely have killed myself, were I him.

Is his fate the one Schneewittchen is likely to face?

I know she is no genius, but what she lacks in brains she makes up for in innocence. Erik is no trusting innocent. But Schneewittchen? No, she is truly an innocent. In every way.

And the sultana is ruining her beautiful innocence, and how I hate her for that! I think I would rather kill Schneewittchen than let her go to waste. I like to think she is a beautiful princess; that's why I call her Schneewittchen. Snow White— a beautiful girl with such innocence it astounds me to this day. I used to ask Vlastik, my cousin, what strange person wrote the story and made the damsel so unrealistic? I did not know Schneewittchen then; now I know Snow White is not unrealistic at all.

Schneewittchen _is_ Snow White, the beautiful princess.

And a beautiful princess who knows the true ways of the world is no princess at all.

---

The sultana summoned Moses and I to her private chamber one day, at a time when Schneewittchen was usually with her. The two of us talked in Arabic to each other about nothing in particular when a girl from the harem discreetly beckoned us to the edge of a building. We went to her, and I can safely say we were both quite confused.

She then proceeded to tell us in a very rational voice that the sultana was planning on giving one of the harem girls to "the living corpse" and that we ought to tell him to make it easier for her and not make her die.

I asked her what her name was, but she did not tell me.

Instead she disappeared into the harem and Moses and I hurried to the sultana.

We were almost at her door when someone stepped out from a niche and I found myself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

"Hello, Jack."

Moses said the only thing he could in English— 'hello'— and then squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, and Jack White ushered the two of us into the niche, where he pushed on a section of the wall. The wall slid back and revealed a narrow passageway, and he pushed me in.

A shot rang out and I screamed as Moses collapsed against the wall, blood seeping from his shoulder. And then Jack followed me into the passageway and shut us into the darkness. He pushed the barrel of the gun into the back of my neck and forced me forward.

"Scream and you're dead, and so's Bazzi," he said. And I smelled alcohol on his breath, but I wasn't surprised. Jack was a fool in love, and whenever he was a fool he was drinking.

"So what now, Jack?" I said. "Are you going to shoot me? Schneewittchen?"

"Shoot the only thing that makes me feel loved? Are you mad?" Jack gave a laugh, and I wanted to say that he was the one who was mad, not me. "No, it is _him_ that I am going to shoot, Ferko. That man— no, that _corpse_ who is stealing her from me."

He babbled on about Erik, switching between English and German and Arabic and Persian as quickly as we took steps in unison. I was so frightened; I can truthfully say I felt safer with Erik looming over me, his fingers biting into me. Angry as Erik was then, _he_ was sane. And he had some degree of control.

But Jack was an animal, pushing me down passageways. I hated the whole thing! I couldn't see an inch, and all I could hear were our footsteps and Jack's heavy breathing. Jack didn't even warn me before I walked into a wall.

"Left," he said, and he reached over my shoulder and pushed and the wall opened.

The door led outside, and Jack pushed me onto the rocky ground, his gun pointed at my heart. I had one of my hands keeping me from being flat on the ground, and the other right near my metal knife. It had stopped bullets before.

If I had anything to say about it, it would stop them again.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Schneewittchen_

The sultana made me sit on a cushion at her feet, and she stroked my hair. There was a pretty cat next to me, and I pet the cat. It wore a very pretty collar, and it was covered with colorful jewels. The sultana was smoking a pipe. I think Kizzy said it was called hashish.

The sultana's room is very beautiful. There is red and silk everywhere. There is no white except for me and my hair and my dress and the sultana's teeth. She smiles a lot, but she has an evil smile.

She is a very evil woman.

The sultana was talking to Erik and me in Arabic about plans for executions. I was blocking it out as best I could. I think Carmen is better at blocking things out than me.

Erik was saying something rude when we all started at a gunshot and a scream. The cat streaked away from me and Erik disappeared out of the door. The sultana followed at a leisurely pace and I ran past her.

I saw Erik in a niche speaking to Moses Bazzi. Moses was shot! I had to stuff my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming or retching. There was blood on his shoulder and his hand and he had a bullet in his shoulder and the sultana looked almost amused.

"Who?" I asked Moses. He stared at me.

"Jack White. He's got Kizzy and a gun." He pointed at the wall and Erik disappeared through it. I slipped through before it closed, being closest to it. The sultana was angry, but I had to stop Jack. Kizzy— Kizzy is more important than he is!

People think I am like a ghost, but Erik is more of a ghost than me. You can't see him unless he wants you to. Or hear him. He is a real live ghost.

I walked into him after a minute. He pushed open the wall and I blinked. We were outside, somehow. Jack White was standing over Kizzy, and I wanted to stop him. Moses said he had a gun.

Erik moved outside but shut the wall before I could get out. I looked out of a peephole but I could only see Erik's back.

"On a shooting spree, are we?" Erik said. His voice is so beautiful! I want to faint at it when I hear him speak.

"You corpse! You thief! What have you done with Schneewittchen?" Jack was angry.

"Nothing at all, my dear Englishman. Merely teaching her how to be an angel."

"I'll kill you!" Jack said.

I had to say no. I screamed it. And the others were very quiet. I begged Jack not to kill him or hurt him. Or Kizzy. He didn't say anything. I said please and I heard a little tick and then someone choking. I banged on the wall and Kizzy screamed and then I fainted again.

---

I woke up in my room with Kizzy over me. She smiled when I did and told me that she was okay, and that Erik was okay. She didn't say anything about Jack White. I didn't ask either.

I asked her what the date was. She told me it was 2 February 1863.

Carmen is stretching on her bed. Has it been that long? Time is so strange here. The days are all the same. I tried to count but I can't count very high and keep track. I got lost at forty-two, I think.

I don't know how they count the days here. Moses says it is 23 Rabial-awwal 1300 A.H. but I don't know what he means. He says A.H. is after hijra but I don't know what the hijra is. I think it is important to Moslems. But I have no religion. I only know a little about the Son of God. Jesus, I mean. He is a prophet for Moslems, and not God's son. I don't know if he is anything for the Semites.

I think people think Jesus died for our sins. I don't understand why he would do that. I wouldn't die for everyone's sins. Just the sins of the people who don't deserve to die. Maybe Jesus didn't want anyone to die. He must have been a very good man. I would have liked to know him, I think.

But I don't know how Mary could have been a virgin mother. I don't know anything about being a mother. But you can't have a child magically! I've never seen such magic.

Moses does magic but not like God does. He doesn't make people worship him. He needs Kizzy to do that— he makes magic and she wages war. That's something God can do, but Moses can't do everything God does. We had to cross the Reed Sea on a boat— Moses said it was too much water to open up for a long time.

I would have liked to walk next to the fishes.

---

The day after Jack shot Moses we went out of the court to the edge of the town to put a little box on top of a mound of sand. Kizzy held my hand because Moses wasn't there. He was being checked on by the French doctor at the court.

Kizzy took me away from where she left the box, and I did not look back. We were walking east, and the sun was setting to our backs. It burned my eyes— I was wearing my robes again. No one knows my name anymore.

And no one told me what was in the box, but I know it was Jack. I think it's awful that all of Jack fit in that little box. Jack was my whole life for more than half of it. He taught me Arabic, and how to be beautiful.

I want to know how he died.


End file.
